AS READERS may know, I delight in the role of grandparent and can bore for Britain when it comes to listing the achievements of my six grandsons.

Therefore it was only fair that I should listen to two chums as they expounded the obvious virtues of their first grandson, two-year-old Dylan, all blond hair and winning dimples, when I joined the three for a morning cuppa at a Broad Street cafe.

Grandad is sure the lad will be the first Liberal Democrat Prime Minister to play striker for Oxford United and England, while Grandma has him lined up to be the next Albert Schweitzer.

Dylan lives with mum and dad in the West Midlands and his vocabulary, though still limited, already shows traces of that area’s accent – much to grandma’s dismay. The waitress arrived with drinks and cakes. Young Dylan reached for his giant-sized cookie and was stopped in mid-grab by grandma.

“Dylan, what is the magic word?” she said.

“Abracadabra!” said Dylan brightly.

Naturally we two grandads fell about laughing and got a telling off from grandma who tried to explain to the waitress that this was a word used in play-learning sessions at the up-market nursery the lad attends – in Solihull, naturally.

I could be wrong, but I’m sure there was calculated mischief in the lad’s big blue eyes.

IT WAS a mistake to plan a Bank Holiday Monday visit to Cliveden, once home of the formidable Nancy Astor and her mega-bucks husband Waldorf.

Not that the house could ever disappoint, but traffic and accidents did their best to deter the honest traveller.

All too soon I gave up and headed instead to Otmoor. Apart from the inevitable twitchers you can have the place almost to yourself.

The sprightly yet elderly couple, with two walking staffs apiece, were only too happy to share an Otmoor-praising session – and one of their salad sandwiches, home-made bread, crusts removed.

“We don’t tell too many strangers about the place,” said the wife.

“We don’t mind sharing, but we look upon the place as our own. We did our courting here.”

“How many years back would that be?” I asked.

“Over 66,” said her husband, nudging her as if to recall some romantic and possibly naughty event.

“How old are you then?” I asked, knowing instinctively the question would not be considered impertinent.

“He’s 86 and I’m a year younger,” she said proudly.

Clearly Otmoor has magical life-lengthening qualities.

MY THANKS to readers for sending more information on George Edgar Wilson, who drowned after saving two boys on June 19, 1889, and to Stephanie Jenkins who has agreed to join me on the anniversary at 1pm to pay tribute. We hope others will come.

Thanks also to Jackie Townsend from Faringdon. She sent more information, in particular about Sir Walter Gray, who unveiled the memorial at Osney.

His son, Frank, founder of the Oxford Mail, was a solicitor and regarded by many as a people’s champion. For a brief period he was MP for Oxford, but had to resign over election expenses irregularities.

Some things never change, do they?